


At a Cruel Angle

by annecoulmanross



Series: Old Friend, Come Back Home [3]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (Hinted at) Thomas Jopson/Lt. Edward Little, (Possibly) One-Sided Thomas Jopson/Captain Francis Crozier, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Christianity, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Please sir that's my emotional support monkey, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23625556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annecoulmanross/pseuds/annecoulmanross
Summary: Whatever Jopson had expected to see – perhaps the just the shale, sharp-edged and cruel and white; perhaps that uncaring image of Jopson’s captain, seated at the head of a table laden with food that Jopson had no desire to eat – now that was all gone. It was all no more than mist, soft and curling, wafting like smoke over the rounded stones on which Jopson now lay. The grey sea flooded around him, silent and empty. Jopson shut his eyes once more.My attempt to cope with the unalterable tragedy that is Jopson’s final scene in the show.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson & Lt John Irving
Series: Old Friend, Come Back Home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653634
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52
Collections: the terror decameron





	At a Cruel Angle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally begun for the Terror Bingo square “God sees us.” Instead, with major revisions, I've finally finished this instead for @theterrordecameron prompt "tender," as my strange final tribute to Holy Week.
> 
> Source notes: The title is from “What Kind of Man” by Florence + The Machine, from [this lovely rossier playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3lDhAbCPmaNgIl9sW1Dfte?si=YJmWdCFqR7i_IzEfkAmxzw) that is now supplying all of the titles for this universe, rossier or not!

It began with an abrupt awakening.

In one moment, Thomas Jopson had been reaching forward with all his waning strength, feeling his muscles pull and tear in the ever-dwindling hope that if he could just pull himself a bit further, if he could prove himself capable, his captain would come back for him.

To believe otherwise was a nightmare. A nightmare that was already breathing heavy against the back of his neck, making his heart pound in terror. He sobbed, and wrestled himself farther from the tent full of dead men, toward the one man he’d thought would _care–_

He crawled onward, desperate, feeling the rocks beneath him rip clothes and skin – he would give _anything–_

In the next moment, Thomas Jopson jolted awake, breathing heavily, with tear-tracks on his face. He closed his eyes against the remaining tears threatening to spill out.

He would scarcely have noticed that he had woken up at all, except for the pain. Or rather, the lack of it. Now, all of a sudden, there wasn’t any pain at all. In between two short breaths, those ragged aches and stings had departed, leaving Thomas gasping.

Even the stones felt smoother beneath him, but still cold. Thomas shivered. His hands, still reaching in front of him, grew chill, and he brought them back to himself, pressing them against his ribs. He breathed – out and in – and realized that he could draw breath now, too, without pain.

It was this knowledge that brought him to finally lift his head and open his eyes.

Whatever Jopson had expected to see – perhaps the just the shale, sharp-edged and cruel and white; perhaps that uncaring image of Jopson’s captain, seated at the head of a table laden with food that Jopson had no desire to eat – now that was all gone. It was all no more than mist, soft and curling, wafting like smoke over the rounded stones on which Jopson now lay. The grey sea flooded around him, silent and empty. Jopson shut his eyes once more.

For many long minutes, Jopson couldn’t move, frozen in place by dizzy confusion. _What_ was _this place?_ He lay, unshifting, as the sensations of his body came back to him. He could feel his lips, and he brought his trembling fingers to his mouth to find those lips no longer chapped and bleeding. His fingers, too, were whole and still had all sensation. Even the shocked tears that ran down his cheeks felt warm – not a sick man’s weeping, but some sort of new, clean release.

Once Jopson realized that the tears were still coming, fresh and bitter, he could not stop them. What might even have been anger flooded him for a moment, a snow-blind frustration, forcing sobs from his throat, until Jopson pushed it away and breathed – in and out.

Even once he had settled his breaths back into something slower than gasps, Jopson struggled to find the energy to lift himself more fully from the rocky ground. Why should he? The captain had disappeared into this mist, and though the pain was gone, who was to say the pain wouldn’t return the moment Jopson opened his bleary eyes again? The pain had been his constant companion, and the captain had abandoned him. This was the way it had to be.

He might have remained there for longer, but soon a muffled sound came to Jopson’s ears – an unfamiliar whisper of quiet sliding and shuffling, far away, yet worrisome enough to make Jopson lift his head in a panic to face whatever was coming towards him across the shale.

But whatever stone Jopson lay upon, it was no longer shale, and no longer made shale’s harsh, broken clacking: this new soft rasping noise must merely be the sound a man’s footsteps made on smoothed stones, because Jopson could now see a figure stepping carefully out of the mist before him.

The figure came closer. As the mist curled away, Jopson saw a man in a lieutenant’s long coat approaching, and Jopson quickly recognized from the short hair and neatly trimmed brown beard that it was Lieutenant Irving.

Lieutenant Irving.

Who was dead.

Jopson had seen the lieutenant’s body, laid out in the medical tent. Bloody and incomplete. Jopson had seen that body flash before his eyes when Hickey had stretched out invitingly in the tent under Jopson’s guard. Jopson had swallowed his disgust and tightened his grip on the rifle, while images of missing fingers crept monstrously into his mind.

But now Lieutenant Irving was here, apparently undamaged, striding across the stones. Evidently he had caught sight of Jopson as well, for he sped up his pace and called out, “You there, are you alright?”

Jopson tried to call back but his voice was unpracticed and rough, and came out only as a cough.

By this time, the lieutenant had reached him, and knelt down beside him. “Jopson–”

“Sir.” Jopson managed.

“Are you alright?” Lieutenant Irving asked again, his brows furrowed in concern.

Jopson nodded and wet his lips to speak. “Yes, I think so. Do you know where we are, sir?”

Irving frowned. “I am afraid I do not. But I can take you to a place that will be warmer. I think that will help.”

Jopson thought that Lieutenant Irving seemed more hesitant than he remembered, more uncertain. When the lieutenant offered him a trembling hand to lift him from the ground, Jopson took it, and found that his legs could carry him once more. He was dressed not in the rags he’d sweated through during his illness, nor even his impromptu lieutenant’s uniform, but a clean, circumspect civilian’s coat over the outfit he’d worn when the ships set sail from Greenhithe. The nicest clothes Jopson owned, as much good as that did him out here, wherever they were.

Jopson smoothed his hair away from his eyes, and nodded to Lieutenant Irving that he was ready.

Irving glanced back with one last look of concern and then led Jopson back through the mist in the direction from which he had come.

After only a few minutes, rock walls began to rise up from the gloom like the tall buildings of London. Jopson stayed far from their bulky mass, the solid stone crowding out the sky. Soon enough, however, the landscape opened once again, until the towering cliff ran only along one side, and the sea of mist washed up on the other. Irving led him down this way to a tent made from furs, pitched in the lee of the cliff to protect it from the wind. It seemed like an Inuit tent to Jopson, who had heard tell of such structures from his captain – they were supposed to be as sturdy as anything, and the furred hides were thicker than the navy-standard canvas of sail-cloth. Indeed, when Irving gestured him inside, the interior was warm, and the tent’s walls were lit by a small oil fire flickering in a bowl.

With a shock, Jopson realized that, nestled amongst the furs that covered the ground, a small, furry body moved, breathing gently in sleep. When Irving settled down, the small animal stretched and opened its eyes, and then rushed over to Irving, swinging up his arm – Jacko, gone these many months, now dangled from the lieutenant’s coat. Jopson marveled.

It was Jacko that brought the first visible smile to Irving’s face. The lieutenant was a bit stiff around the creature, but the corner of his mouth lifted when he looked toward the little monkey sitting on his shoulder, fussing with his hair.

Jopson allowed himself a soft smile too. “It looks like she likes you, sir.”

The lieutenant smiled back a bit broader. “I was lucky to find her. I was wandering out by the water, and she came right up to me. She’s been with me since – followed me back here and didn’t leave.”

“Has there been anyone else, here, sir? Any of the crew?”

The lieutenant’s smile vanished as if it had never been. He shook his head.

That night they talked little. The silence wasn’t exactly comfortable, but Jopson was exhausted. The fact that the lieutenant did not seem to mind him resting, curled in the furs and occasionally playing gently with Jacko, was a blessing.

When, once, Lieutenant Irving had begun to take off his outer coat, Jopson had instinctively moved to aid him. Irving brushed him off, at first somewhat harshly. Quietly unsure, Jopson stood back.

Lieutenant Irving sighed. “I’m sorry, Jopson. Only, you need not do that – I can manage fine, and the captain promoted you, in any case. It’s not your job any more.”

Jopson breathed, and buried everything as deep as possible and nodded his head and brushed the traitorous lock of hair out of his eyes when he looked up again. _It’s not your job anymore._ He had told himself that every day. _It’s not your job anymore._ He had wondered if hearing it more often would make him believe it. If hearing it more often would help him understand what role he was meant to play now. But that was before – and now he had no role at all it seemed. What use were two lieutenants with no men between them? One lieutenant might at least need a steward. But apparently Lieutenant Irving did not.

As the sky outside the tent grew dark, the wind picked up, and Jacko skittered into Lieutenant Irving’s arms. With a few quiet words, the lieutenant bid Jopson sleep well, and then the two parted, each going to one side of the tent.

––––––––––––– 1 –––––––––––––

The next day could barely be said to have “dawned.” The misty air lightened somewhat, but a thick layer of cloud blocked the sun, and Jopson didn’t even think to question it when Lieutenant Irving made no move to leave the tent at all that day. The hours passed slowly, as Jopson’s moments of sleeping and waking drifted together. A soft rain fell, but it did nothing to dispel the mist.

That evening, as the thin sunlight fell along the cliffs, a pink warmth washed through the fog to the west. Jopson found himself sitting beside Lieutenant Irving at the tent’s mouth, watching this refraction of a sunset. It was almost companionable.

When Irving finally broke the silence, it did not feel brittle, after all.

“I do not know what this place is,” Irving began, “but I find that it does not yet make me lose faith.”

“I’m glad, sir.” Jopson wasn’t sure what to think, but certainly this place would be no better with an unbelieving Lieutenant Irving in it. The man’s Anchorite fervor had always been something of a mystery to Jopson, for whom a distant God seemed a fair enough – and more realistic – prospect. And yet Jopson found himself desperately hoping that there was some greater plan than an eternity in this mist and barren rock. An eternity spent with Lieutenant John Irving had never been a part of Thomas Jopson’s plans.

“I mean, we are certainly dead.” Irving continued. “I did not realize it at first. I thought that I must have fallen and hit my head and become confused – because those Netsilik were here with me, and they had been alive and well, at least when… but they seemed so shaken and afeared, and I began to wonder. And then Koveyook–” 

Jopson watched the lieutenant’s mouth curve carefully over the native name, as though said many times in desperation to remember its foreign sounds, some small deed of thankfulness and guilt, like a prayer said in penance.

“–Koveyook took me here, and motioned me stay, that the fire would keep me warm. He seemed sad. And then he and his – well, he and his family left. I don’t know where.”

Jopson nodded. “Perhaps they have another place to go to, sir, after this.” He wasn’t sure if he believed it, fully, but this place didn’t feel final. The air around them felt like a breath held, not yet released.

Irving nodded. “I had that thought. God must provide some place even for those who do not know Him. I only hope it is a good place – they were good people. They deserve His kindness.”

Although Jopson had known that the story of the Netsilik people as Irving’s savage killers had been no more than Hickey’s lies, it was still strange to hear Irving speak of them with such open gratitude and sorrow. The lieutenant seemed almost transformed by the feelings – still as fervently mindful of his God, but somehow now it almost made him kind instead of cruel. Jopson marveled at the change, much like he had wondered over the presence of Sir John’s monkey.

Something of this surprise must have shown on Jopson’s face, because Irving looked at him somewhat sharply and continued. “It was Mr. Hickey, who…” Irving struggled on, with an effort. “Hickey is the reason I am here, they do know that, right?”

“Yes sir, Captain Crozier figured out what had happened,” Jopson said. “And Hickey was to be hanged, sir – I put the noose around his neck myself, but the creature came back and Hickey escaped.”

Irving sighed. “I suppose that Hickey killed that Netsilik family too, then?”

Jopson shook his head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but no…”

As Jopson relayed the sad story of Hickey’s falsehoods and Hodgson’s response ordered against the Netsilik, Irving appeared to grow more and more distraught, until–

“–It is my fault, then.” Irving’s interruption halted Jopson’s recounting.

“No, sir–”

“I told them to wait, to stay there, and then Hickey– but if I had said nothing, they could have run, they might have survived.”

“Lieutenant Irving, sir.” Jopson insisted. “You could never have known what Hickey was going to do. That man – he wasn’t sane.”

“Yet Hodgson had them killed in my name.”

Jopson felt unmoored. “You can’t blame yourself for that, sir.”

“I think there may be many things for which I should blame myself,” Irving sighed.

Jopson allowed the silence to grow, a move which often encouraged officers to lean upon Jopson’s confidence.

Irving sighed. “You know, of course, what happened to Gibson’s bedding.”

Jopson nodded. He’d never regretted passing that information – gleaned from Jopson’s quiet observation of the laundry room – to the captain, and he didn’t regret it now, though, with a slight pang, he thought back on how agonized Irving had looked when Captain Crozier had called Irving in to give account for the bedsheet-related misadventures of the subordinate officers’ steward and the filthy behavior of the caulker’s mate.

“That wasn’t the first time Gibson had come to me,” Irving continued, hardening his voice with an apparent effort.

Jopson tilted his head, another move which often encouraged officers to lean upon Jopson’s confidence.

Irving went on, “Gibson and Hickey were – I mean, I found them down in the hold, once –”

Jopson nodded. Such news did get around, though not widely, in this case, Jopson suspected. But even news that stayed among a close few was still news, and Jopson heard all news. It came of being quiet, and having other similar talents. He’d heard of the true nature of the connection between Gibson and Mr. Hickey, though not from this source.

Irving looked relieved enough not to have to describe what he had seen in detail that he was not inclined to question Jopson’s knowledge of the matter. “I had thought it best to try speak to them both privately,” Irving said, unhappily. “I thought to give Mr. Hickey a chance to redeem himself – I thought that would be a kindness.”

Irving’s voice hardened: “I should have told the captain. I should have reported what I saw – and now I am paying for that sin of omission.”

Initially, the platitudes and bitter condemnations both fell off Jopson’s tongue like honey: “There was nothing you could have done, sir. That rat of a man had it in mind to have his own way, and damn the consequences…” Jopson took in a quick breath, bracing himself for opposition, “…and sir, I do think it was a kindness, to spare Gibson, at least, from punishment – and to give another chance to Mr. Hickey. What they did harmed no others – a second chance was not unwarranted. A better man might’ve made good on that opportunity, sir.”

This, somehow, brought a soft look to the lieutenant’s face.

“Do you think it was a sin, to wish to spare them?” Irving asked, looking very young, almost as if he were thinking of something (or someone) very different from the horrid case of Mr. Hickey.

Jopson breathed out quietly in relief. “No, sir, I don’t think mercy can be a sin.” A flickering old memory flashed through Jopson’s mind: his mother with an old family bible – the only book they owned – open on her lap. The fragment, blurred with time and sorrow as it was, prompted Jopson to speak of things he often put far from his mind, far from the daily tasks of his life. “I recall,” Jopson said, “that the Lord once said that only those without sin can judge? To speak only for myself, sir, I think that means I should not cast stones.”

Irving cast a curious look at Jopson and nodded, slowly. “The words of the Lord say that none of us should cast stones, for we, all of us, do sin.” Some undercurrent ran under Irving’s words, but the familiarity of scripture-talk seemed to calm the lieutenant, nonetheless. A quiet conspiracy overtook their conversation.

That night was easier than the first. Irving and Jopson sat near the fire and spoke of other things – Australia and the Antarctic, old friends and old adventures. And when the darkness drove them to their beds, they went as contentedly as was possible under the circumstances.

––––––––––––– 2 –––––––––––––

During the next day of isolation in the Inuit tent, Irving broached the topic of Jopson’s death with as much delicacy as he seemed capable.

Jopson wasn’t particularly eager to talk about having been left behind, but Irving had asked, so Jopson applied himself to the task of catching Irving up to the point of Jopson’s own death, while cradling a sleeping Jacko in his lap like a child’s comfort-toy.

“After the creature attacked, and Hickey escaped, those of us who remained continued walking,” Jopson began. “A number of men sickened as we went. We lost Captain Fitzjames first and then Mr. Blanky on the same day and then Mr. Peglar not long after – and Mr. Bridgens left, after that, so we didn’t have any sort of doctor at all. Not that there was anything even brave Dr. Goodsir could have done for us. But some of the officers–” Jopson bit his tongue, half-heartbroken, against Edward Little’s name “–some of them talked about leaving the sick behind. The captain wouldn’t hear of it, initially, but one morning, in the sick tent, I heard the noise of sledges again, and when I managed to lift myself, I was all alone.”

Jopson kept his vision of the captain and the feast-table to himself. He’d figured by now that it had all been a mirage, a trick of the ice and shale – though perhaps this world, and Irving with it, was a mirage too. But Jopson could picture only too well the look of concern and pity and doubt on Irving’s face if he revealed the impossible vision of Crozier in his dress uniform seated amongst an enormous English supper, so he kept quiet.

“And that was it, I think, sir. I don’t remember much after they– after I was left behind. I think it was quick.” Jopson finished. There wasn’t much to be told, after all was said and done.

Irving frowned, and leaned a bit closer to Jopson as if to provide some comfort, though he did not reach out a hand.“I am sorry.” Irving said, “I do not know what could have driven the men to leave you behind, but it was not mercifully done. And I cannot imagine that the captain would ever leave you, Jopson. He cared for you.” Irving swallowed. “He _loved_ you, Thomas.”

Jopson felt his cheeks heat. Self-preservation – or perhaps desire to preserve his captain’s honor – told him to demur, to find a way to bend the conversation back to something more appropriate, but he found himself hanging on Irving’s words.

Irving continued, “Truly, I cannot believe Captain Crozier would have left you behind. Something must have happened that kept him away.”

A thousand possibilities swirled through Jopson’s head, each worse than being abandoned, and each worse than the last – Crozier, fallen to some sudden sickness; Crozier, injured and alone; Crozier, snatched away to be tortured by Hickey…

Jopson felt a hand settle upon his own, and looked up, realizing that he had been breathing hard and staring into the distance. Irving, settling beside him, seemed genuinely concerned.

“Jopson, I’m sure he’s fine.”

Jopson had not thought the lieutenant to be perceptive; clearly Jopson was failing in his usual standards of decorum for himself. He needn’t show his distress about the captain. It wouldn’t do any good, after all.

But Irving, once settled upon a problem, seemingly could not be moved aside. “The captain is alright, Jopson, I _am_ sure of it – I feel certain that you would… well, that you would not be here with me at all if you might instead be with Captain Crozier. I do not think God would allow otherwise.”

Jopson tried to settle his breathing, to hide himself; “Sir?” he asked, to buy himself a moment in which he might compose himself.

Irving, of course, quickly broke any composure he had obtained: “The Lord must try to place us with those we love, if they are near, I think. I have no other explanation for this little creature–” Irving gently stroked the fur upon Jacko’s head; the monkey blinked sleepily up from the nest of Jopson’s lap. “And as I said, I know that you loved the captain. I– I tried not to judge, but I could tell that he meant a great deal to you, and you to him, so I felt I must be wrong to see it so– so basely, but now I wonder…”

“You can’t mean that, sir.” Jopson said, reeling.

“I do not mean to blame–” Irving said, placatingly.

Jopson rushed in, “–I assure you, there was no–”

But Irving interrupted, “–I would be a hypocrite if I condemned such feelings, Jopson. I–” Irving seemed to realize what he had confessed, and looked like he might be paralyzed from fear. His face had gone all white, and his breath was coming quicker than it should. So disturbed was he that even Jacko stirred, and came chittering back to Irving and climbed up to his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jopson ventured.

Something seemed to shake Irving from his terror. He lifted a hand to pat Jacko’s head awkwardly and then cleared his throat.

“I find that I worry that God sees us even here, Jopson,” said Irving, "I thought that was a blessing, before, but now I’m not so sure.”

Jopson reached for what might reassure Irving – “Surely God would not condemn you for naming what is already in your mind?”

At that, words seemed to pour out of Irving like a flood.

“I tried so hard to resist, Jopson, but I am wretched by nature, and I no longer think I have anyone but myself to blame. I am – was – so tempted by the… affections of men. Like Mr. Hickey, I suppose. And I tried to run away from that temptation, but I was caught in its snares, again and again.”

Jopson wondered. “Did you ever, sir–”

“No– that is.” Irving looked horrified, then a blush full of shame rose in his cheeks. “I mean to say, I didn’t give in, but I – I wanted to. I – you remember when the captain told me to keep an eye on Thomas Hartnell? After the lashing? And how Hartnell and I grew to be quite close?”

Jopson nodded, knowing. He had seen or heard some of this before, from his usual sources of information – how Hartnell had seemed confused by the somewhat awkward attentions and guidance of the lieutenant, at first, but eventually had come readily to Irving’s lessons on scripture and painting, and then stayed long after the other men had gone.

Irving continued, “and then, at the Carnevale – well, Hartnell, ah– I cannot say this without being uncharitable, somehow. I think, once, I would have said that he tried to seduce me. But that hardly seems right. He only pressed my hand and kissed me.”

Irving sighed, seeming defeated. He cast his eyes once, up, and then dropped his head.

“I wanted so badly to hold him, Jopson. I knew it was a sin, but I wanted it anyway. I hope it is not so bad a sin as some of what we did out there, on the ice. Hartnell never caused so much pain as Mr. Hickey, and even when the captain had him and Manson whipped and Hartnell with them – which was right, I know it, but – even that feels like more a sin than anything Hartnell ever did. He’s a good man. Perhaps it would not to have been such a transgression, to touch him?”

Jopson’s chest felt tight. How could he blame Irving for desiring the same pleasure that Jopson had received every day that he had cared for his captain: those simple, loving touches of fixing a collar, holding a wrist to mend a sleeve?

Jopson placed a hand delicately, carefully, atop Irving’s arm. The touch was light, giving the lieutenant space to move away if Jopson’s comfort was unwelcome in this way. But Irving stayed, though tears began leaking down his face. After many long moments, he brought his own hand up to cover Jopson’s, and to keep it in place. They sat like that as the fire flickered and the light from the door of the tent dulled from misty grey to dark night.

“I am sorry,” Irving said, finally, when the tent was fully wrapped in the darkness.

Jopson only tilted his head, quiet, unsure how to ask what Irving meant.

“I am sorry,” Irving said again. “I am sorry for what happened to you. I am sorry for what I said about you and the captain. I am sorry for burdening you with my sins. I am sorry for everything. I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

Jopson rubbed his thumb over the rough fabric of Irving’s coat, feeling Irving’s fingers shift atop his own. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for, sir.”

“John–” Irving corrected.

“John– it’s none of it your fault. What you told me about Hartnell, it is not a burden – not even, I think, a sin. And what you said – it was never like that, with the captain and me, but…”

Jopson knew his heart was pounding, but there was no fear, not anymore.

“…but I had wished it might be. You’re not alone in that.”

Irving grasped his hand more firmly, and smiled, though his eyes were still sad. “I do not know what I did to deserve this, but I thank you. And I thank God for you, Mr. Jopson.”

Jopson smiled also, and so they sat, together, as another day passed into night, until the fog curled around the edges of the shadow and drove the two of them to their beds once more.

–––––––––––––– 3 ––––––––––––––

Jopson awoke and, for the first time in a long, long time, he felt truly warm. Arising from the furs and smoothing his mussed hair where it fell over his eyes, he caught a glimpse of true, bright light shining beyond the walls of the tent, streaming in through the gap at the door. Jopson stood, shakily, and drew closer to the light. At first it was blinding, but once his eyes had adjusted, he found that the world itself had somehow changed again: gone were the tall cliffs rising above and the sea of mist surrounding them.

Instead their tent opened high on a bluff covered in green grass, and among this vibrant color stood Lieutenant Irving, looking dazed.

Spread out below, there was a peaceful harbor, filled with ships decked out in many-colored flags. Up and down the quay walked men and women, all of them somehow familiar, but too distant for Jopson to tell exactly how. There was life, and sunny air.

“Paradise,” Irving breathed, and began to climb down the rocky steps toward the vision that lay before them both.

“Sir?” Jopson said, causing Lieutenant Irving to glance back up at him.

Jopson smiled, “God has seen us, I think.”

Irving, miraculously, laughed.

––––––––––––– After –––––––––––––

It was after – long after – after Captain Crozier had arrived – after Jopson had found his captain on the edge of the ice, worn and tired but greeting Jopson with a tender smile and a raised brow and a soft kiss to the forehead – after the captain had greeted those he loved and settled in amongst the men he had lost, and after Jopson had begun to think about what was to come with more than just worry and fear and heartache.

After that, Jopson would pass by Lieutenant Irving sometimes in the halls of the great house, or out by the bay, where the views were good for painting – and where Tom Hartnell could be found swinging from the rigging of one ship or another, joking with his brother or racing Henry Peglar up the foremast.

During one of these after-days, Jopson came up to where Lieutenant Irving sat beside the quay, and settled himself beside him, following Irving’s gaze up the ropes of the _Resolute_ to the place where a familiar sandy-haired figure was standing on the foretop.

“Are you contented, sir?” Jopson asked.

And John Irving looked over with an answering smile, and nodded. “I believe I might be. And you, lieutenant?”

Jopson ducked his head with a small smile, remembering now not the pain of how this title had separated him from his captain, but instead the warm words of Lieutenants Irving and Little when they had welcomed his promotion; after that, the fierceness in Captain Fitzjames’ voice when he had insisted upon Jopson’s deservedness and worth; and even later, after: the proud, sad look in Jopson’s mother’s eyes when he had finally found her and told her everything.

It was all a long journey – and one that Jopson had not yet completed: to learn to speak with his mother again without worry; to learn to be forgiving (and even, perhaps, joyfully, to be delighted) when Edward Little offered him a tender, hesitant smile; to learn to watch from a distance as Captain Crozier tended (and was tended to by) all those who loved him, here.

And yet, this place, it seemed, was a place where things might be mended. A place where people might still change and grow and yet not forget.

“I believe I am happy, yes.” Jopson replied, stretching back and looking up at the sunny sky above.

There was not a single bird in sight, across the cloudless blue expanse.


End file.
